Disinterested Party
Of one.
Last week I accompanied my husband to a Party Where Nobody Talks to Me. If you’re a woman, especially one in midlife, you know exactly what type of party I mean. The kind where you’re only visible to the other guests if you stand too close to a Diptyque candle and your hair catches fire. And even then they’d probably save the candle first. They’re expensive.
The party was for one of Chris’s colleagues, so he didn’t know most of the guests, either. But that didn’t matter because he wasn’t an invisible blonde woman in a tunic with Nothing to Offer Men Now That Her Eggs Are All Gone.
Hmmm, there’s something gross about her —
The men at the party politely introduced themselves to Chris, asked what he did, half-paid attention when he said who I was, and then each of them immediately started to talk about themselves like the sound of their voice was a rare gift they were bestowing upon us.
This was mostly because these men were all 1) slightly older than us and 2) massively more wealthy than us. I know that because one of them mentioned that he was CEO of a large high tech company at least four times in 10 minutes, and the others all told us the boards they head up. It was my worst nightmare come to life: a live action, immersive LinkedIn experience. “Congratulate Ken for 20 Years of Being a Narcissist!”
“Are we writing these weirdos’ profiles for Fortune magazine?” I whispered to Chris during a lull. “Because I just want to eat my damn crab cakes in peace.”
During these “conversations,” I wasn’t once asked anything about myself, and when I did respond to something they said, they just continued to ramble like I wasn’t even there. It wouldn’t have mattered what I said.
“Then in 2001, I moved to Big Tech Company where I was CEO for 5 years.”
“That’s really interesting, Greg. Coincidentally, 2001 is the same year I gave birth to Axl Rose’s triplets, then directed one of the SAW movies.”
“It was also during this time that I was president of the board for Big Cultural Non-Profit.”
“Oh, I love that org. They were so nice after I committed a multiple homicide in their parking lot. They even used some of their tote bags to wipe up the bloodbath.”
“(pause) I have twenty cars.”
Most women have experienced this invisibility at some point. A talking boor used to be more common on airplanes until AirPods and naked hostility became popular. But it truly bothers me. Not because I want to connect with a walking TED Talk and hear more about being born on third base, because I really, really don’t. It bothers me because I don’t understand the complete lack of interest in learning about the person right in front of you.
I tend to go hard the other way because I’m endlessly curious about people. Give me five minutes in a restroom line and I’ll come away with four social security numbers and a deep dark secret about someone’s brother-in-law. Maybe this is because I’m a writer, or because I love stories, or because I’m, at heart, a super snoopy person prone to peeking through the blinds, but it’s mostly because I know that connecting with others is our responsibility as human beings on this planet. And if you don’t want to do that, if you’re just a rich guy focused on yourself, then why don’t you spend some of your millions on a rocket ship and blast the f-ck off into space?
Oh.
Okay, I think I just answered my own question.
At least the crab cakes were delicious.
Thanks for reading!
—Wendi
OTHER THINGS:
We’ve had some great episodes over on my It’s Pronounced Memwah podcast, notably our discussions about Billy Dee Williams’s memoir and Griffin Dunne’s memoir.
I co-wrote a funny/tragic piece about your tax dollars for McSweeneys.
My favorite new thing is watching people dance at this flea market record shop in Paris.
Oh, darlin' -- just wait till you're in your 70s. I often have to drop the F bomb just to interrupt the monologue. They think I'm senile after that and possibly dangerous.
That's great, but let me tell you more about me.